


The Colour Green

by lonevvanderer



Series: Night Gathers [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A major character death has occurred, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jaime Lannister Redemption, Not necessarily a romance fic, POV Jaime Lannister, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Past Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Post-Night Gathers, Rating unlikely to rise, Slightly dubious age difference, implied PTSD, rather a character assessment, was originally a one-shot, yet here we are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: ~ Jaime Lannister begins anew[Set post-'Night Gathers' - reading of that fic is highly recommended, though not necessarily essential]
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Wylla Manderly
Series: Night Gathers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915621
Comments: 27
Kudos: 9





	1. The Wheel of Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Wheel of Fortune -
> 
> Upright: Good luck, destiny, change, karma, cycles
> 
> Reversed: Bad luck, upheaval, lack of control, unwelcome change

The wind blew harshly over the rocky hills of Casterly Rock, and the Kingslayer took little pleasure from the soft sunrise bathing his surroundings in pinks and purples. Jaime took no pleasure in colours any longer - he longed for dull grey, unassuming and boring. Jaime had had enough excitement to last a thousand lifetimes. And by excitement, the old soul within him really meant pain.

It was an odd sensation. The dullness of his grief. His men, atop their horses beside him, chatted and cheered as they joked and smiled, but Jaime sat atop his own horse solemn. Alone. His body felt old, despite the trappings of youth still clinging to his tired bones. Was it forty-odd years he was at now? Or more? Jaime no longer cared to remember. Two years alone, the last lion of Lannister, was all he now knew.

_Not the last_ , Jaime reminded himself.

The parade of horses, their mantles of green and blue glowing glum as the sunset light hit them. Their banners fluttered in the wind, blowing the mermaid detail into funny and inhuman shapes. At the head of the caravan, was a man near his age, grey hair splattering amidst his blonde. He was the spitting image of his father, the great Wyman Manderly.

“Lord Lannister!” The man bellowed, his silver armour glinting harshly into Jaime’s eyes.

“Lord Manderly,” Jaime returned politely.

He remembered his conversation with the man not a few moons ago, at a banquet hosted by the Queen. 

_“What better way to redeem yourself in the eyes of the North than to take a Northern bride?”_ The blue-clad man had said. _“I dare not give my brave Wylla to any man unable to handle her.”_

_“And you think I can handle her?”_ Jaime had retorted.

_“Sink or swim, Kingslayer,”_ Lord Manderly had replied. _“Your house will die out without an heir. Consider my offer kind.”_

No one wanted Wylla for their lady-wife. She was too bold. Too brash. She spoke her mind and broke every rule in the book. Granted, Jaime had never met the woman, but he knew the type. _Think Brienne_ , he had thought to himself, _except she hates your guts_.

The lords of the Westerlands had no suitable daughters, all either babes or past their prime. Take a wife, the Westerlanders had demanded. Rebuild House Lannister, Queen Daenerys had commanded. So he did. So he planned, for it was now his sole and solemn duty.

Jaime thought he spotted her, encased by knights of silver, her face hidden by a dark teal cloak. He saw that her mouth bore no smile, at least, and that her gaze was fixed upon the flowing black hair of her horse. An unwilling bride - and for that, Jaime sighed. There would be no love between them, no bricks dutifully built by them both like Lord and Lady Stark. She would despise him for his many names, and he would take her hatred with no retaliation.

A miserable life lay ahead of them, but it was only Jaime who deserved it.

“I do hope the journey has been kind, my lord,” Jaime called out, his left hand gripping tighter on the reins of his horse.

“Oh, not terrible. I’m glad spring is here, at least - what an awful winter!” Lord Manderly replied.

Yes, it had been. The Kingdoms had been practically buried in snow as far south as Harrenhal, and Casterly Rock had even seen some of its shores freeze in the early mornings. Jaime was glad for summer’s return - he preferred the sun on his ageing skin.

The woman whispered something then, prompting her lord father to turn to her. She dismounted at her father’s command, her cloak fluttering harshly in the wind and revealing a sharp blue dress. With another gust of wind, her hood fell from atop her head to reveal a dishevelled braid, dyed a garish green.

Next to her, Lord Manderly sighed at her appearance - clearly nervous that the _mighty lion of Lannister_ would refuse his youngest daughter. She stepped forward, closer to Jaime’s still horse and through the damp grass. Jaime looked on, curious, as she refused to tear her stare from him.

“Lady Manderly, a pleasure to meet you,” Jaime offered, as politely as he could.

She said nothing, her chin rising with the deep movements of her chest. Her stare became bolder, her jaw tighter. Her reply was clear - to him, at least.

_My claws are sharp_ , the stare said, _as long and sharp as yours_.

Jaime nodded slowly, offering his best smile to the fidgeting Lord Manderly. Lady Wylla still did not break her judging glare. He led them inside with a wave of his hand, to their chambers, and into the warmth. Their wedding would be this evening, with the whole Westerlander court in attendance - and apparently the Queen, though she had not yet arrived. Jaime lost sight of the young Wylla almost as soon as they entered the gates, and let out a huff of air as her oppressive gaze left him. He ordered a serving boy to carry their cases up to their rooms and abandoned his horse and men to retreat to his own chamber, so that he may prepare.

Jaime sighed, heavy, and mournfully, his arms limp by his side. Twice, he had wished to match for love - it would seem duty wished to scorn him again.

* * *

She had looked beautiful, naturally, as all bright brides on their wedding day do. Her vivid green hair complemented beautifully with her rich, deep blue gown, its sleeves long and dancing behind her as she glided towards him. She looked harshly out of place next to his own red attire, however, as well as the red and gold drowning the main hall of the castle. She had held his hand lightly, her eyes staring nowhere but forward. Jaime could offer her no comfort here.

The Queen had arrived on dragonback just in time, smiling brightly as her Westerlands subjects eagerly welcomed her to Casterly Rock. She had never actually been here, of course, but she seemed excited… if not a little wary. She was in the actual lion’s den, after all. The festivities had just begun, the music overpowering even the loudest of toasts and cheers, but the head table was silent. Queen Daenerys sat to his left, his new wife to his right. So, Jaime sat like a lame duck, in between the two oddly hair-coloured women, fiddling with one hand because he was bloody missing one.

_I need to get that sorted_ , he scolded himself, _fucking idiot throws his hand on a pyre… Tyrion had always said I had a flair for the dramatic._

The thought of his younger brother stabbed him lightly then, his hand clenching on the wooden chair as he attempted to shake the ill memory of his death away. Daenerys noticed, her eyes glancing subtly as her chin rested on her jewelled hand.

“Is everything all right, my lord?” She asked politely.

“Yes.” He replied.

Wylla did not even acknowledge the exchange, quietly sipping on what was most likely her third wineglass of the evening. He didn’t blame her.

“I don’t think you’re as good at lying as you used to be, Lord Lannister,” Daenerys said incredulously, but her lips curled into a small smile in jest - and the faintest bit of genuine concern.

Jaime relented. “Just thinking about Tyrion.”

Daenerys’ smile dropped in an instant, and the Queen plucked her drink and took a gulp. Was it remorse that Jaime saw in the eyes of the young Targaryen? Anger? Grief? For a woman so often called ill-tempered, she was mighty hard to read if the emotion wasn’t anger.

“I understand it now, you know,” Jaime offered. “To be alone in your duty. To be the last one left.”

Daenerys nodded slightly, her gaze avoiding his own. The two of them had been dumped with the charred remains of both their houses and it was up to them and them alone to make the bones fit back together. Had you asked him ten years ago whether he would find such commonality with Daenerys Targaryen, he would have laughed.

“I’m no longer alone,” Daenerys replied bluntly, but her smile was sweet, and her shoulders no longer slacked from grief. “I have my daughter.”

“That you do,” Jaime replied, smiling in return.

He supposed he was a little bit jealous - for the Queen to have such a pretty little girl who she could devote her sole attention to. Princess Lyanna was, what, nearing three now? She had not yet lived long enough to know pain, but Jaime knew that little girl would be adored until the end of her days. Just as Jaime still adored his Myrcella. The thought of her, bloodied and dead in his arms, still stabbed sharply in his chest.

“How is the Princess, your Grace? She’s growing well, I hope?” Wylla interjected, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Daenerys leaned forward so she could see the new Lady Lannister better, and beamed - as all mothers do when speaking of their children.

“Thank you, my lady, she is.” She said, fidgeting with barely contained excitement as she discussed her favourite topic - her daughter. “She’s getting a lot stronger, especially so now that this winter has drawn to a close.”

“That’s wonderful to hear! Will you be taking her North again anytime soon?” Wylla asked, her eyes soft, yet sad, as she clearly already longed for home.

Daenerys leaned back in her chair a little. “I shall have to see. It is a long journey for a babe.”

“Can’t you just fly?” Jaime asked.

Daenerys shot him a look. “I’m not putting my infant daughter on a dragon.”

Jaime lifted his arms in mock surrender, and the three of them chuckled lightly. He was pretty sure some other Targaryen had done it before, but he could understand the Queen’s reluctance to have her sole heir leagues into the bitter sky.

“Yes, well, her falling off would be no good to the realm - unless you’ve got a spare,” Jaime said in jest, but Daenerys flinched, which was not his intention.

Daenerys tensed as she turned to look at him again. “I’d rather not think about her falling off, thank you very much. Anyways, there will be no spare. I will not be remarrying.”

Both Jaime and Wylla peered at her, their eyebrows raising at the Queen’s bold statement. She was young, not even twenty-five, perhaps, with plenty of child-rearing years ahead of her. _Seven Hells, Queen Rhaella had had Daenerys when she was nearly fourty_ , Jaime thought.

She noticed their looks, their judgement, and immediately sprang to defend herself.

“Lyanna will be Queen after me. Nothing on this earth but the will of the Gods will change this hard fact.” Daenerys declared, her stare icy. “The dragons have learned their lesson. I’ll not be having some upstart Prince consort scheme my daughter’s death and usurpation because he wants his own seed to wear the crown. _I’ll not have it_.”

Wylla took a gulp of her drink. “But what if something was to happen to the Princess, your Grace?”

Jaime almost had to laugh, the damn woman hadn’t spoken two words to him, save for _I take this man_ , and here she was making political conversation with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms from across his seat. A fine Lady Lannister in the making, whether she liked it or not.

Daenerys looked to the still-roaring crowd, mindless in their drink and cheers for the newlyweds. They were certainly having lighter conversations than this one.

“King Viserys named Rhaenyra his heir, raised her to be Queen, gave her their duty, that expectation. He then remarried to Alicent Hightower and had a son. You both know the rest.” Daenerys said, but she did not look at either of them still. “If Lyanna… dies… House Targaryen ends with me, yes, but if I gift Lyanna with a claimant, especially a male claimant, upon my death, it will end all the same. I would rather chance my House’s demise than ensure it, my lady.”

Wylla nodded, leaning back into her chair as if scolded, though Jaime was sure it was not the Queen’s intention. He understood it, really. 

“Not to say it’d also piss off the lovely people above the Neck. The princess is Jon Snow’s daughter too.” Jaime added. Wylla shot him a glare. An unneeded addition, perhaps.

Daenerys wrung her hands together. It was a bold move, to be sure - a risky one as well. In doing so, she would anger countless suitors, lose out on valuable alliances. Time would only tell if the Queen’s gamble would pay off. But, from the mournful look on her face, Jaime could see it was not the fatal possibilities which upset her at this moment, but that which had already occurred.

“Forgive me, your Grace. I should not have brought him up.” Jaime said quietly.

“Don’t be stupid, Lord Jaime. I’d rather endure a few moments of grief than let my husband’s name be lost to oblivion.” Daenerys snapped, before returning to her dejected demeanour. “I think I will retire, my lord.”

Jaime nodded, preparing to stand, but the Queen waved him down and bid them goodnight. He watched as her silver head disappeared through the crowd like a ghost, the crowd parting for her in a sea of red cloak and gold armour. Jaime could have sworn some even flinched as she passed by - a good few of them had been at the Goldroad. They had seen what a dragon could do to a pride of lions.

“I suppose we should retire as well. It’s late.” Wylla declared, emboldened by her drinks.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, surprised she had even deigned to speak to him let alone command their departure. He wasn’t going to complain, though. He didn’t wish to drink, but neither did he wish to sit here for another hour while he and his new wife said sweet fuck all.

He stood, slightly wobbly, and bade farewell to his men. A few were already passed out, and Jaime took some pleasure in knowing he’d be retiring to a plush bed rather than under a table. Wylla followed behind diligently as he walked out, her eyes practically boring in the back of his greying head. The journey back to _their_ chambers was excruciating, every breath and footstep deafening as the new Lord and Lady Lannister exchanged nothing but bitter silence.

As Jaime slowly clicked shut the chamber door behind her, he straightened his back, reluctant to turn.

“Well, we had a lovely conversation with the Queen. She seems to like you.” Jaime conjured up, turning his head slowly but still avoiding Wylla’s form.

“That’s my job,” Wylla retorted, albeit sarcastically. “People are supposed to like me.”

“Mhm,” Jaime replied. “And here I heard that Lady Wylla Manderly was a hurricane, untamed by even the wildest of Northmen.”

“Fuck off.” She said bluntly.

“Ah! There she is.” Jaime chuckled.

He walked over to the vanity at the far side of the room, ignoring her distasteful stare as he waltzed straight past her. She had been on her best behaviour since the moment she arrived at Casterly Rock, watched by her father and his men. No doubt he had threatened her with the Silent Sisters should he have refused her.

“Go to bed, my lady. I’ll sleep on the settee.” Jaime offered as he worked on removing his formal jacket. It was still an action he had trouble with, despite his hindrance now being a part of him for years.

“What?” She asked, incredulous.

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“You can go back to hating me tomorrow, I’ll sleep somewhere else,” Jaime said, still not looking at her.

“You’re right, I do hate you.” _No surprises there_. “Your family are butchers. I lost family at the Red Wedding, I lost them in the War of the Five Kings. You’re no better, you king slaying rat!”

Jaime stopped and turned suddenly, a poor and unfinished unbuttoning job on show for his new wife. “Well, good thing they’re all dead then - let’s call it justice. As for me, well, I’m sure I’ll get my true comeuppance someday. Perhaps Lord Stark will throw me out of a window!”

Wylla scrunched her face up, clearly disgusted by his jests. Her green hair seemed to look worse in the low light of the room, almost looking sickly in colour. Jaime hated it. He looked at it and all he could see was King’s Landing.

“You’re a vile man. My father is cruel to have made me marry _you_ .” She spat. “I know what my job is, _husband_ , but don’t forget what I am.”

“And what is _that_ , pray tell?”

She walked away to the other side of the bed, her face obscured by the posts and the draping red curtains - but Jaime had no need to see the look on her face when the next words spilt from her mouth.

“A Stark woman. A Northerner.” She declared.

_The North remembers, that much is true_ , Jaime thought, _and it would seem that bold little Wylla Manderly was not bound to forget anytime soon._


	2. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- The High Priestess -
> 
> Upright: Intuitive, unconscious, divine feminine
> 
> Reversed: Repressed feelings, withdrawal, silence

The flame scones flickered low in the dining room, the only major source of light being the grandiose fireplace placed slightly off centre from the middle of the room. Jaime sat at one end of a large oak table, his grass coloured wife on the other - practically a world away. Four months, it had been, since she had been forced to wed him, yet she still came and sat at this table for supper every day and without fail. Always in silence, though.

To his left sat Maren, his commander, yapping on about fortifying defences with the Riverlands. He had selected him, the youngest lad of some border lord he couldn’t remember the bloody name of. He was capable, though. But Jaime was barely listening, for this conversation had been repeated a thousand times.

“One day the North will push south, whether it be for their little independence, or worse, for our heads!” Maren complained, scraping his hands through his black hair. His own holding was mere miles from the Riverlands border, so Jaime couldn’t say he blamed him for his concern.

“It’s a waste of men, my lord. The North can  _ remember _ all they like-” Jaime said, sparing a glance at his very clearly eavesdropping wife “- but unless they plan to invade the south with fireproof men, I think we’ll be fine.”

Maren scoffed. “We have no idea of their numbers…”

“Six-thousand, I reckon, and that's at a push. Huge swathes lost against the dead and then even more went poof at King’s Landing. The Queen’s army is almost four times that, nevermind that they’d starve before they got to the Twins.” Jaime explained curtly.

Wylla flinched slightly at the mention of King’s Landing, and Jaime’s heart paused for a brief moment in guilt. He had spoken too callously of what the people were calling ‘Mad Cersei’s Massacre’, and Wylla had lost her own grandfather in the flames.

“Or maybe they’d simply wait us out, declare themselves Kings in the North and wait for us to come to sort it out.” Maren retorted.

Jaime scoffed, pulling his glass of wine from his lips before it went all over his food. “Unlikely! They’re not powerful enough to hold against the Southern armies, nevermind two fucking dragons. Brandon Stark won’t betray Queen Daenerys. Bloody man wants nothing,  _ does nothing _ .”

The answer seemed to satisfy the young lord by his side, but Jaime had lost interest in his paranoia. Instead, his own paranoia had erupted, as his eyes wandered to the woman ahead of him digging delicately into her food.

“And what is your stance on Northern independence, my lady?” Jaime called out, startling her.

She looked up, her face blank. Her brows furrowed for a second, only a second, seemingly deciding what was best to say.

“I believe I have told you already, my lord husband. I am a Stark woman. Where the Starks lead, I follow.”

Maren whipped his head around. “No, you are not! You are of House Lannister and as such obey the Lord of the Westerlands!”

Jaime snatched out and yanked the man’s sleeve with his left hand, his grip tight - though not enough to hurt.

“Don’t speak to my wife in such a way,” Jaime said sternly. “She outranks you in this room.”

Maren leaned back, Jaime’s grip on his sleeve loosening as he turned his head back to Wylla and bowed it in apology. She looked visibility confused at his defence.  _ She’s still a Lannister,  _ Jaime rationalised,  _ She still has to be as respected as me _ .

“You can leave now, Maren. I’ll see you in the morning for the drills.” Jaime declared, but he was not looking at him.

His eyes were instead glued to Wylla’s, her own eyeing him curiously as she placed another piece of her food in her mouth - Jaime stared disapprovingly at the green hair which fell in front of her shoulders as she did.

“So, let’s say Brandon Stark crafts himself an iron crown and calls himself king… will I be needing to find another wife? Might be a bit hard...” Jaime joked, but the question underneath was serious.

She sighed, her eyes staring at the worn oak for a few seconds and then back to his own. “He won’t. You said it yourself. I am loyal to Bran and Bran is loyal to Daenerys. And Daenerys has done nothing against me, and I have nothing to gain from independence, do I? I’d still be Lady Lannister.” She explained, an answer she had clearly practised in front of a mirror in fear she would be asked this very question.

That didn’t make him suspicious, though. It made him feel guilty. She was a woman of barely twenty, though even of that he was unsure, living in fear people thought her a northern ultra-nationalist.

“Lady Sansa likely hasn’t.” Jaime continued nonchalantly, curious to hear what his wife had to say on the woman.

To his surprise, Wylla scoffed.

“Lady Sansa…” She said, pausing as she pondered her words “... has suffered greatly. Undeservedly. Just as much as the rest of her siblings, if not more.  _ However _ , the only lessons she seems to have learned are that of self-preservation, pride and opportunism. She embodies none of the values that Starks and the North have upheld since ancient times. As a matter of fact, she’s more Lannister than I. Perhaps you should have married  _ her. _ ”

Her tone had become sterner with every word, her sharp eyes reminding him of Lady Olenna as she rattled off her, quite sound, wisdom.

“I didn’t want to marry Sansa Stark,” Jaime returned.

“You didn’t want to marry me, either.”

He sighed.  _ Stop being correct, woman _ . They both tucked back into their meals, but an odd awkwardness had settled on them both as the candles burned lower than before. Wylla played with her hair mindlessly, almost childishly, as the last dregs of her plate disappeared with haste.

Jaime decided at that moment, as the vivid green hair spiralled around her pale finger, that he hated the colour. Not only was it an unsuitable for a lady, nevermind one so high-ranking as herself, but it was also objectively sickly. He looked at it and his palms sweat, and he could not hold the strands gaze for more than a few seconds. Green wasn’t  _ good _ . Green was for wildfire. For Cersei’s eyes. It was for envy, for evil. And now, that green was flowing from the scalp of his bold young wife.

“Your hair is ridiculous,” He blurted out, the discomfort the colour caused him tucked away behind a hundred walls of bravado.

“I look no more ridiculous than you,” She spat, her eyes piercing the missing hand on his right.

Both stared at each other, furiously, awkwardly - the absence of love and spousal camaraderie as absent as the warmth slowly dying from the fireplace. She hated him, he was sure of it, but Jaime was at a loss. How could he rebuild House Lannister when he couldn’t even lay the castle foundations?

“Would you please change it?” Jaime asked. He almost added  _ for me _ , to plead with her to ease his soul when it looked at her hair.

Wylla sat back in her seat, her dinner clearly finished, and tilted her head. Still, the sadness in her eyes was clear - and it seemed her defence was the same as his own.

“Oh, I suppose you do prefer  _ blondes _ , don’t you?” She said. “Well, if you don’t mind, blonde seems bad luck around you.”

She stood, her long sleeved dress floating down like waves, almost as if to match the blue.

“Madness or death. I think I'll stick to green.” She continued, before pushing the chair back with her legs and picking up her gown so as not to trip.

Jaime clenched his jaw, the below the belt attack rendering him unable to talk. A part of him wished to rage, to punish. How dare he speak to her as such? Punish him so? Brienne wasn’t his fault, he had come to terms with that. And Cersei? Cersei went mad all on her fucking own! 

Instead of blasting through the door, Wylla turned as she reached the handle and politely curtsied.

“Husband,” She spat behind a smile.

“Wife,” He returned.

He did not fight. He was not angry. The lion in him had cowered.

And he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! Ifyoubothhaveapointregardingthebadthingsinthisnon-existentrelationshipbutneitherwilldoanythingaboutituntilaleveloftrustisestablishedandyoustoptreatingeachotherwithpreconceivednotionsofwhoyouexpectedthemtobesowe'lljusthavetowaitandsee... clap your hands!


	3. The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- The Sun -
> 
> Upright: joy, success, celebration, positivity  
> Reversed: negativity, depression, sadness

Wylla walked tentatively into the main hall of Casterly Rock, a look of shock clear as day on her pale face as the music began. A small swarm of ladies-in-waiting surrounded her, smiling and laughing.

It was her nameday.

Jaime sat at the far end of the hall, in the exact same spot he had dithered when he had married her, and waved a good hand towards her.  _ She hates it _ , he realised, as she looked lost amongst the crowd. It was not as if she was not aware of the planned celebrations, the ladies of the court having excitedly planned and revealed the festivities to her not too long ago. Still, Jaime eyed her closely, worried - all he could see was the look of a terrified girl.

He stood, brushing off any dust that had gathered from his chair and strode down the small platform which had previously raised him above the others in the room - and by the Seven, there were plenty here. Any excuse to get drunk, he supposed. He weaved expertly through the crowd of dancers, half of them already deep, too deep, in their cups, placing his good hand gently on any man ignorant of his presence.  He made haste towards his wife, deigned to save her from the babbling of her airhead ladies - though he knew his company was no better. Still, she was his wife, and if he would not love her, he’d at least help her out.

“Excuse me, ladies,” He smiled at the women, all of whom stopped their chatter to immediately curtsy before him, “I was wondering if you would let me steal Lady Wylla for a dance?”

They laughed, pleasant and sweet, but of the sickly sort. Jaime had yet to meet a noblewoman who lacked the haughty laugh, the nasal pleasantries - even Queen Daenerys laughed too politely these days. Jaime watched them scurry away, but when he turned his head back to his wife, her stare was icy.

“A party?” She asked, deadpan.

“I’m trying to be nice,” Jaime replied with a tilt of his graying head.

Over the past few weeks, Wylla had retreated. No dinners, no walks, no fleeting appearances in the corridors of Casterly Rock. When he did see her, her eyes were puffy, red so raw it overwhelmed her soft pale skin. 

“And how old am I today?” Wylla asked coldly, her voice thin and high - and it is then Jaime was reminded how young she was.

Jaime stammered. Nineteen, he pondered. No, perhaps eighteen. Perhaps twenty. His tongue moved to form the letter ‘n’, but Wylla rolled her eyes at the sight. Either way, Jaime realised, the woman was young enough to be his daughter - and for that, Jaime bowed his head forward in shame.

_ House Lannister needs heirs _ , he reminded himself,  _ An older woman would give you little or none _ .  _ And no man had wanted Wylla. _

Wylla looked to him expectantly, one sparse blonde eyebrow raised. Her hand darted out, her fingers long and slender, and Jaime took it. Lords and ladies cleared the way for them, a wave of silk dresses fluttering behind the women. Queen Daenerys’ fashions were beginning to catch on - the shin length jacket dresses, the silk Essosi style ones too… and by the Seven not a single other woman could pull it off properly. Wylla kept to her northern styles, long sleeved cotton dresses, a v-neck style that was absent of any accessory except a scarf. Her dress today was green, a darker shade than her own hair, and made her look like a pale of grass. Jaime couldn’t help but to snicker a little as he took her other hand to dance.

“So,” Wylla questioned, “who helped you come up with this? Such administration is beyond your capacity, my lord,”

Jaime ignored the veiled slight, almost stumbling over her dress as they turned, and answered honestly. “The Queen, in fact.”

“I shouldn’t have told her,” Wylla’s brows rose high, a small smile on her lips as she replied heartedly. Jaime looked back at her, confused. Was Wylla Manderly - Lannister -  _ friends _ with the Queen? “Oh, don’t look at me like that Jaime, she writes often to check on me.”

Jaime’s gaze fixed on her, surprised that she had not called him  _ my lord _ . She had even called him that when she left his bed-chamber in the night, after ‘fulfilling her wifely duties’ despite his assurance she could wait. He didn’t question her further when a shadow passed over her face and her lips drew down into a vacant darkness. Jaime simply stares ahead. Check on her, she had said. Like she was some hostage. His eyes fluttered closed at the thought he was causing this woman such a prison.

They danced, the music fast, but not full of cheer. Not happy. Her hands rested lightly on his own, and the distance between them was intimate, at least in appearance. The other lords and ladies would stare and whisper of how lovely they looked together, but in reality there was a chasm between their clasped hands - of a kind unable to be bridged by nothing and by no one.

“I’m afraid I’ve not gotten you a present, my lady,” Jaime said quietly as the silence between them became too awkward. “I could make you Queen in the North, if you’d like?”

The joke landed, and Wylla chuckled. “That’s a ship that’s long sailed.”

“What?” Jaime smiled. “You’ll not have freedom for the Northmen?”

“Not at the price of my honour, my lord,” Wylla replied, but the lightheartedness had gone mostly, and her tone was serious. Her eyes went vacant once more, and Jaime gulped uncomfortably.

Her honour was already gone, married to a Lannister, a sworn enemy of the Northern Kingdom. Here, amidst the finery and the snakes, she was alone. But neither could she return home, since she would never be a Stark woman ever again - no matter what she claimed. The only way out of a marriage was to greet the Gods, and Jaime prayed he would not outlive a third woman.

“I’m with child,” She blurted out.

Jaime stopped their dance in its tracks, his feet heavy as they planted to the floor once more, but Wylla resisted, and led the dance onwards by a strong right arm and sheer force of will. 

Inside, Jaime rejoiced. A  _ child _ of his own, not Cersei’s. A child who he could raise himself and keep his promise to the Queen - to make sure House Lannister became honourable. No Joffreys, no Cerseis or Tyrions, or Tywins. Just sweet Myrcella. Kind Tommen. Lovely Joanna. He resisted the impulse to smile, his heart warm and alive, more alive and beating that it had been in years. But he stopped himself, because Wylla was not smiling. Her eyes were wide, desperately avoiding his gaze, and her lips pressed into a fine line so that they practically disappeared on her face. Her sweaty hands trembled in his own, and Jaime then realised.

She was terrified.

Jaime held her a little tighter as the next song picked up, a touch he desperately hoped was comforting for her. Gods, she was so young, far too young for him, he knew. She had grown up in a harsh time, sorely lacking in women for they had all died so young. Too young. No man was ever safe from the gloom of death, no woman or child - definitely not the children. Myrcella’s bloodied face often haunted his dreams to remind him of that. 

“You’ll be alright,” Jaime whispered as they spun around the room once more, the watching crowd unaware of their Lady’s turmoil. They floated around the room, far smoother than he would have ever anticipated from a northern lady, but if it were their shadows which danced in their stead, hers would have been as small as a mouse.

“You’re not in control of that,” She said quietly. “I’m not in control of that.”

She was right. They weren’t. And it was then Jaime’s heart dropped further into the marble floor and the earth, because that’s what her plight was all about. She didn’t have control over  _ anything _ . 

“How did Cersei react? When she found out?” She asked boldly, and for a moment Jaime’s back straightened like iron, fear coursing through his veins.

But, alas, he had nothing to fear. Everyone already knew.

“She was elated, especially that it wasn’t Robert’s,” Jaime murmured. “I… was happy too.”

Wylla looked up at him then, her bright eyes scanning him as if to detect a lie. But there were none. Jaime remembered the day clearly, when Cersei ran up to him and dragged him into one of the rooms. She had smiled, so widely, so happily, and Jaime had picked her up and hugged her. He was young, and he had adored her - and he had adored the baby that followed, even if he stood at ten paces. Even when that child grew vile.

“I’m sorry about your children,” Wylla offered gently.

Jaime smiled sadly, nodding in appreciation. He had never been their father, not truly. Myrcella had known, even if for a minute, and such a thought that she died knowing that truth was the only solace he found in her death. But Tommen? Joffrey? He was Uncle Jaime, and nothing more. In the eyes of the Gods, he had no children, no matter how he wished it otherwise.

The final strings of the dance grew quiet, an uproar of claps and laughter taking the stage in its place. Wylla paused to curtsy, and when she rose again, she stood and looked at him proudly, her chin high, her fear abated.

“Did you love her?” She asked amidst the noise.

Without hesitation, Jaime spoke the truth, “Yes.”

She stared him down, but it was not out of anger, nor fear. The glint in her eyes was pity.

“Fool.” She declared, before taking her leave and vanishing into the swarm around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, going at my own pace due to uni work so this took a while. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
